


A Gift With A Twist

by BlessedDawn



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Blood Elves, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6840745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedDawn/pseuds/BlessedDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lor'themar is bored of the same old routines. Rommath and Halduron make the perfect distractions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Gift To Warm His Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I know that this chapter is very short, but I just wanted to introduce the necklace in question which is going to give Lor'themar a very hard time... in more than one sense of the phrase. Enjoy!

Lor’themar sits silently in his office, near slumped over the desk stacked with some unfinished papers and repetitive letters. He stares blankly at the clock hanging upon the wall directly in front of him. It ticks through the silence, a steady clicking sound that makes the elf more desperate to leave by the second.

The room itself is as grand as the rest of the Spire. There are striking colours of crimson and gold, the colours of their people; artistic pieces of abstract design hung upon the walls; lavish rugs and a dotting of bright candles to light his workspace. Really, he has no reason to complain, for in the comfort department he is spoiled, but he is an elf of the wilds, a Farstrider at heart who craves more than the monotonous task of writing the same polite responses to the same people. If he had it his way, he would use these papers to fuel their fireplaces, though magic has always been the easier method.

“Regent Lord?” comes a familiar - albeit muffled - voice from the other side of the door, accompanied by a rhythmic set of knocks. Lor’themar knows who it is immediately, ears perking and his single eye turning towards the door.

“You may enter, Rommath.” The pair are on a first-name basis by now; Rommath still forgets Lor’themar’s wish, but it is forgivable, as for the longest time they addressed each other by rank. He cannot mind, because he is aware that Rommath only means to give him the utmost respect, and that is something he can appreciate.

When Rommath enters, shutting the door gingerly behind him, he holds a white bag. Lor’themar guesses that it is full with the way the Magister struggles with the weight, swapping hands on the way to his work desk, before the elf unceremoniously dumps it with a dull _thud_ onto the desk.

“What is this?” The Regent Lord asks with genuine curiosity, a single, long brow raising as he regards the mysterious bag.

“A wild lynx.” Rommath rolls his eyes, proceeding to seat himself gingerly upon the seat opposite Lor’themar.

Lor’themar can’t help but snort; the other elf’s sarcasm has never failed to amuse him, and now is not an exception. “I am quite aware that there is _not_ an animal in there. What have you brought me? I am meant to be working.”

“You were  _not_ working. I know you.” Rommath opens the bag, then, and the object the Grand Magister draws out takes his breath away. It is a necklace, made out of pure gold he is sure, a long, shimmering chain that meets at the top of a large, red gem. The gem is lined with gold and silver, flecks of it in and amongst the crimson. Within the border of the gem, a ring of rich metals, there is a single word engraved: ‘Fearless’. It makes Lor’themar smile.

“From you?”

“Partly.” Rommath shrugs, and Lor’themar gently takes the pendant by the chain. It is long enough that he does not have to unclasp it, merely drape it around his neck, adjusting it so that the gem rests in the centre of his chest. He almost wishes to kiss the Magister, even though he receives gifts more often than not; but although every one of them is taken with gratitude, one as personal as this - from a close friend no less - warms his heart more than he thought possible.

As Lor’themar snaps out of his train of thought, he notices with a brief hum that the white bag has not been emptied; there is still something very large and very heavy within. Rommath notices the curious gaze and, with a smirk pulling at his lips, draws out a large folder full of paperwork. The groan he hears, the immediate change of expression, makes the Grand Magister chuckle, and he raises, taking the now empty bag in hand and brushing dust and creases out of his robes with the other.

“The Spire officials expect the majority of this to be completed for them this afternoon; without the valuable information, they cannot plan further.” Lor’themar nods at the information, closing his eyes momentarily. Rommath always brings bad news along with the good, doesn’t he?

“Very well. You may take your leave.” Lor’themar’s voice is strained, but he still gives a gentle smile. Rommath inclines his head and shifts towards the door he came in from, pulling it open and drifting out of his office, closing the door in his wake. “Thank you,” the Regent Lord adds, before he is left by himself, to watch the hours drag on… and _totally_ do paperwork.


	2. Unexpected Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lor'themar doesn't know Rommath. Halduron makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really not an amazing writer, but I hope this was okay! I love writing so I just want to practice and get better. There are some sexual things in this, but full-on smut will probably come next chapter. Something I struggled with was trying to make a thought process read smoothly in present tense. I don't know why I found it so hard, but wording is so important. I hope it's not too clunky. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

When Lor’themar is alone, he tends to think about things - over think them, even, to the point where if the tiniest thing went wrong, he would have a full plan laid out and ready to go. Although it’s a bad habit, he’s made use of it many times before; on the battlefield, at dinner parties, and even in his own life. Despite the times that this particular trait has worked out for him, at this moment, it definitely doesn’t help.

What he thinks of now is the pendant slung about his neck, its weight against his chest, and when he picks it up to admire it, how it feels in his hand. He tests the weight, runs a finger along the gem, and smiles to himself. _Why would Rommath give me something so beautiful? Something with so much meaning behind it?_ The stack of paper lies untouched before him, but he cares little for it. Instead, his eyes and hands are drawn to this gift, and his mind turns its focus elsewhere, to the elf who gifted it to him.

Whenever he tries to think of the Grand Magister, not too much comes to mind. Of course he thinks of his strong personality - how he says what he wants without hesitation, and how he talks Lor’themar down whenever he thinks he’s doing something stupid. Rommath is inhumanly smart, and a far quicker thinker than Lor’themar when it comes to a lot of matters that don’t concern combat. Even when they’re on the field, some of the ideas Rommath thinks up astonish him. In terms of how the elf feels about politics, of various people, organisations and situations, he could write a book about it. But does he really _know_ the Grand Magister?

It was so easy and _distant_ , the way Rommath gave him this gift. Although he meant well, how is Lor’themar supposed to understand the reasons behind it? _Without asking I won’t know, but perhaps I’ll seem foolish if I do..._

He lets the pendant drop back to rest against his chest, resting his chin in his hand with a small sigh. There’s so much mystery about the Grand Magister, though perhaps that’s simply because he’s never asked anything of him. _His favourite colour? Place? What’s his favourite memory? Who has he learned the most from? How many scars does he have? Why does he cross his legs in the opposite direction when he’s nervous? How can Lor’themar make him laugh the way he did when they first met?_

 _I over think again_ , he tells himself, finally sitting up straight and turning to address the pile of paperwork before him. He has to blink his eye a few times to focus on the words, glassy-eyed from his train of thought. It takes a long time for him to even get through the first, a letter from the Reliquary addressing some sort of strange demon they discovered while searching for an artefact in an underground tunnel, and requesting for him to send his people out there to take the demon down - really, it is silly. It is only one demon, and there are plenty of Reliquary elves that must be able to use magic or weapons. Lor’themar is not a menace, however; he writes an incredibly brief reply, mentioning that he would send a group of well-favoured adventurers out to aid them. He’ll mention it to Halduron, he decides. The ranger would know who to call on more than he.

Paperwork is something Lor’themar loathes the most when it’s a day like this. Outside the trees sway gently in the wind, golden leaves slipping from branches to spiral to the ground where they lay in tiny piles, brushed aside by the enchanted brooms that drift through the city streets. Squirrels and small rabbits run around, collecting food for their families and chasing the leaves. The sky is bright and blue and the sun shines brighter than it has all year - it is never rainy, but some days the sun is brighter or dimmer, and sometimes the sky isn’t as blue, more of a contemplative grey. In their trees, birds sing a merry song; he can see more of them them flying in front of his window, circling in the sky, chasing each other, or soaring in the air while giving out high-pitched calls.

Sometimes he wishes he was up there with them, with his own set of wings, hovering above the world and all its troubles. There is only so much a Regent Lord can take from anyone, and lately he’s up to his nose in paperwork, people intruding on his privacy, Alliance rogue-types trying to assassinate him even after everything he’s done for them. If he could be free of so much trouble, just for one day, like when he was young…

Once upon a time, many years before, Lor’themar was free to do anything he wanted. Although he was a Farstrider in training, he had a surprising amount of free time, most of which he would spend with Halduron. Back then they were equal, just two boys trying to conquer the world together. He’d always felt close to the elf, so he spent the most time with him, running through the forests, chasing each other, tackling each other down into the grass. It was always smiles, laughs - deep, belly laughs - and believing they had all the time in the world, that they could do anything if they stuck together.

Halduron was his first friend, and also his first love, though he didn’t realise that for several years. It was only during Noblegarden, when they went egg hunting, that he understood that what he felt for Halduron wasn’t just brotherly love. During their hunt they came across a small clearing surrounded by trees. They found some berry bushes in the clearing to satisfy their hunger, so they sat, legs intertwined, eating and talking.

Time passed quicker than they expected it to; the horn sounded to signal the end of the egg hunt, but really, neither of them really cared about winning, and they had only wanted an excuse to spend more time together. Even when the Their conversation turned from the weather, to family, to nature and then to love - Halduron asked if Lor’themar had ever fallen in love. Lor’themar, confused and almost too embarrassed to say no, asked what it felt like, and then, with a smile, Halduron leaned closer.

“Like this,” he whispered, breath tickling Lor’themar’s lips. He remembers looking at them for the short moment he had to spare, admiring them, and for a second an alien thought jumped into his head - what would they feel like, taste like? But his thought process was interrupted as Halduron closed the distance completely, kissing him.

Lor’themar’s eyes flew wide. Electricity sparked through his body with every touch of their lips - for a short moment, he didn’t respond, as if he couldn’t register what was going on, but then he was wrapping his arms around Halduron’s neck and kissing him back, a joyous laugh escaping his lips. Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place, like he’d just completed a puzzle he was trying to solve for years. He _was_ in love, with none other than his best friend, Halduron Brightwing.

They kissed for several moments like that, before Halduron grabbed him by the waist and lifted him, pulling him closer until he was seated in the other elf’s lap, with Halduron’s hands roaming down his back, his sides, his hips. He couldn’t remember when he’d began kissing at Halduron’s neck, but the taste in his mouth, the scent of fresh sweat, of pure masculinity, made him moan in delight.

Half of him wanted to slow things down or even stop them; after all, they were in the middle of the forest, and anybody could see them! But the way Halduron was starting rock against him, even through their leathers, was making him flushed and hazy, and he was starting to lose any rational thought he had left. Halduron threw his head back and moaned, and he returned the rocking motion in kind, feeling the pleasure burst through him, overtake him as if he would--

“The Grand Magister’s in a good mood today,” Halduron comments as he swings open the door to Lor’themar’s office, holding a small brown basket, made of twine. Lor’themar snaps his head up, blinking his eye into focus and trying to look as alert as possible. It’s impossible to stop the flush that darkens his ears, face, even _neck_ as he realises who just walked in. He isn’t sure when his hand started to press against his clothed bulge, though he immediately removes it as Halduron enters, and slams it upon the table a little harder than he intended, eliciting a shocked blink from the other elf.

“Halduron!” Lor’themar greets with a bright, too-big-to-be-genuine smile, giving a soft cough of embarrassment but beckoning Halduron closer anyway. The Ranger General does approach, though it is half-reluctantly, near cautiously. Even so, he sees amusement sparking - the elf raises a brow, and a sly smirk spreads across youthful features.

“Are you quite well, Lor’themar? You’re not yourself - perhaps rest would be wise?” He almost considers it for a moment, looking to the paperwork with disgust, but he knows he isn’t ill, simply recovering from what could have been a wet dream if he wasn’t careful - he shifts in his seat, trying to distract himself from his arousal, and the wet patch it’s formed in the front of his trousers. “Ah! I know what it is you need - food. I brought you bread rolls.”

Halduron slumps down in front of him, relaxed as he is out of the public eye. With any other official he would, _should_ act much more professional, with proper posture, language and gestures, though Lor’themar’s told him to drop the act around him. They’ve known each other for so many years, as friends and lovers, that he can’t bear to see him act so distant - it almost hurts him. The thought is forgotten in the wake of the smell of the food Halduron’s brought; he draws one of the rolls out of the basket, the scent of freshly baked goods ripping a sound of pleasure from his throat. The Ranger General laughs, a bright, genuine sound, and Lor’themar laughs too, watches the other elf pick one out too.

“You know, it’s strange, seeing Rommath so… _nice_ ,” Halduron jests, before ripping into the bread roll he holds between his calloused hands. He can spot the scars from where he sits, just across the desk, but then he knows where they are without looking, and he doubts anyone else would have noticed them at this moment in time.

Countless scars, big and small, litter the ranger’s body, Lor’themar knows - he has seen him at least half-naked on more than one occasion, with every encounter bringing more scars, more questions, and more adventurous tales. Even his fingers, thin, long and deft, find themselves victim. Whenever he touches his hands he can feel every tiny ridge beneath his palm, and he memorises them in his mind. Lor’themar could paint a picture of Halduron in his entirety, but his scars are one of the things he knows the best.

Today Halduron wears a set of brown and green leathers that cling to his form. They show off his tall, lean form, full of flexing muscles and pure masculine charm. His armour has been custom made, likely designed for its charm over functionality - he’s never worn it on the field - but he doesn’t see the armour so much as the body underneath it. Lor’themar cannot help his wandering eyes from following the lines of Halduron’s body.  Although the rolls are a welcome distraction, his arousal hasn’t completely died down, especially now that the man he was dreaming about is right across from him, and he imagines his body in great detail - it’s in times like this that he feels grateful for his impressive memory.

Halduron is watching him intently when he comes back into focus, and he tries to blink away the heated look in his eyes to address him more casually than his mind wants him to. _What did Halduron say again? Ah, yes._

“He has been more pleasant lately. I hear he even rescued a small cat from a tree during his nightly stroll.” Halduron stares at him incredulously, and he laughs at the expression on his face. Soon enough, Halduron joins in, filling the usually quiet and dull space with life. Eventually, Lor’themar bites into the roll he’s been holding, chewing in silence. Halduron watches him with a sharp eye, a slim brow raised.

“You like it?” The meat in the roll has a strange mix of spices. It’s new, exotic, and so obviously _Halduron_. He gives a firm nod of approval, in case the look on his face isn't enough. He can’t help but chuckle beneath his breath after he swallows the first bite, wondering how Halduron manages to add a part of himself to everything he does, everyone he meets.

“I must say, Halduron, you still surprise me with these things... after how many years?” The Regent-Lord pauses briefly, brows creasing in thought. 

"Too many." 

"No... not enough." Halduron smiles. They eat.

Lor'themar doesn't recognise the knowing glint in Halduron's eyes. Not until it's too late.


End file.
